


As We Go

by secretsoup



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Blood, Blood Oaths, F/F, Grown ups, Second Person Perspective, directionless fluff, duck wives, swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 02:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17397965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsoup/pseuds/secretsoup
Summary: Webby hesitates, making a worried face at the knife in your hand. “I don't want you to hurt yourself,” she says in a small, strained voice.“Webby, you kind of can't make a blood pact without spilling blood.”





	As We Go

“Are you okay, you look like you're gonna be sick.”

“Mmmm.”

“I  _ know _ you're not afraid of blood.”

Webby hesitates, making a worried face at the knife in your hand. “I don't want you to hurt yourself,” she says in a small, strained voice.

“Webby, you kind of can't make a blood pact without spilling blood.”

“I know!! I know. I just. Mmmmmm.”

You smile fondly at her, the love of your life, who could kill a man with her bare hands but balks at the idea of seeing you shed a little blood. You could have done this like normal people, with ink on paper and white dresses, but there is absolutely nothing in your shared history with Webbigail Vanderquack that could even generously be called normal. This feels more on brand, kneeling on what's left of your shitty old amphitheater under a full moon, preparing to slit your palms open like you're stupid teenagers on a double-dog-dare trying to prove something. 

“I love you, you know,” you say, in case you don't say it enough. It's not meant to be coercive, just. You look at her, small and strong and sweet and good, and you love her, so you say it.

Some of the tension goes out of her shoulders. “I know. I love you too. Sorry.” She giggles nervously. “Can you believe we've never done this before?”

“I can't believe you're  _ stalling _ .”

“I'm not! I'm just.” She sighs. “I don't...like seeing you hurt, Lena, it never gets any easier. Promise you won't cut too deep.”

You can't blame her for that, really, because she's right. It never does get easier. She broke her arm in a fight once and you nearly burned a whole city over it. 

You lean forward and kiss her. “I promise not to cut my hand off.”

“Lena!!” She laughs, in spite of--or perhaps as a nervous response to--her horror. “Okay, okay. Let's do this.”

Webby picks up her knife, and you ready yours against your palm. No time like the present. “Ready?”

“Ready. Three…”

“Two…”

“One-”

“ _ Now-- _ ”

You pull the knife across your palm, fast before you can think about it, misjudging the thinness of the blade and  _ absolutely _ cutting too deep. Blood, or something like it, blooms from the wound, and you watch in fascination as it stains your feathers black, then red, as if it remembers belatedly that you're supposed to be something resembling mortal and not….whatever it is you really are.

Webby has cut expertly, because of course she has, but it's still not easy to see. It is maybe not totally ridiculous to want all of your girlfriend's blood to stay on her insides, where it belongs. The urge to take her hand and try to heal it before you can do the thing is pretty strong.

But Webby grabs your wrist roughly and kisses her bloody palm to yours, pressing hard and gripping your fingers against the shock of pain. She huddles close, protective, but she doesn't look worried and nervous anymore, she looks… determined and serious, eager, wild, and  _ ready _ .  For maybe the twelve  _ millionth _ time in your life, you think she’s so  _ fucking _ beautiful and you wouldn't hesitate kill for her. You don't know why it surprises you that she can still surprise you, that she can still knock the wind from your lungs with a Look, and you wonder if it will still be this way when you're old gray hens, if you will look at her while you crochet spell circles into doilies or whatever, and think,  _ god damn _ .

Eventually, Webby blinks. “Were we, uh. Supposed to say something, or.”

“Haha, shit. I forgot.”

“Romantic!”

“Listen, we're making it up as we go.”

She tilts her head at you, hair spilling silver over her strong, bare shoulders. “Haven't we always?”

You regard her pretty face in the moonlight. “Yeah. Yeah, we have. Nothing about us is conventional.”

“That's why we're so good.”

You nod, suddenly emotional. “We are.” You swallow. “You are….definitely the  _ goodest _ thing to ever happen to me, Webby. Maybe that doesn't mean much, comparatively, but-”

“It means everything.  _ You _ mean everything.”

You lapse into reverent silence. It's not poetry, but it's honest. You duck and kiss her, once, twice, soft but sure.

_ Plip _ , goes your blood, as it drips to the weathered stage.

“Is that...enough?”

You shrug. “I think so.”

“We should probably,” says Webby. 

“Yeah,” you agree. 

Parting hurts, as your feathers and skin stick when pulled apart. “Let me see,” you say, and she holds out her ravaged palm. You lick a finger and press it to one end of the slice, and she leans over to watch as the blood slows and her flesh begins the slow process of knitting itself back together. It's a hack job as far as healing spells are concerned, accelerating the natural process only marginally, but it'll help.

“Will it scar,” she asks, hopeful. 

“Almost definitely.”

“Good.”

“Keep it clean anyway. Healing isn't exactly my wheelhouse.”

You perform the spell on your own hand while Webby tears strips from her nightgown to wrap your hands. Satisfied that you'll heal and haven’t lost your fingers, she sits back on her heels.

You take your knife in hand again, and run a finger along the flat of the blade. It turns red, then orange, then white, white hot; the blood on the blade bakes, and with a pinch of phantom fingers you extract enough metal to form a small molten marble floating in midair. It spins, faster and faster, a blinding white star on earth, flattens, and hollows, and when you snatch it out of the air it's already cool to the touch. 

You hold out your empty hand, and Webby responds. The ring you slide on her finger is simple steel adorned with a small black stone, and as unimpressive as it is, it's far and above the twenty or so lopsided previous attempts you've since thrown into the bay trying to master the technique.

“Lena,” Webby gasps. “This is so  _ metal _ .”

You laugh and repeat the process with Webby's knife. The stone hers creates is red and she gasps when she realizes why. “That's my  _ blood _ , Lena that's so  _ freaking _ hardcore, I  _ love _ it.”

She slides the ring on your finger and kisses you again, this time throwing her arms around you and rocking you back on your heels with the force of spring-loaded Webby-energy.

“We're married,” she says, giddy.

“Yeah.”

“Does it feel different?”

“I'm not sure. I mean, to be fair, we've been sharing a bed for like, seven years, so, you know.”

“Yeah.” A beat. Her eyes go wide. “It's our wedding night.”

“Oh.”

“What should we do?”

You look at her, your  _ wife _ , in the moonlight: wide, pretty eyes, sweet face, dishevelled hair, shredded, blood-stained nightgown. 

“Let's elope.”

“Haha, what?”

“Like, right now. Like this.” You don't look any better than she does, to be honest, probably even worse because doing magic without a staff wears you out and it always shows in bags under your eyes and you're sure she just smeared blood all through your hair. You grin, and probably look absolutely ghoulish. It's a good thing she loves you. “It'll be fun. People will stare. They might even call the police.”

“Where do we go?”

You shrug. “Paris?”

“Paris,” she sighs. “As wives.”

“Wives on the run. We did a murder, probably.”

“They absolutely will  _ not  _ let us on a plane looking like we did a murder, Lena. We at least need like. Coats and scarves. And big sunglasses.”

“Yes. Yes that's good, you're absolutely right. Big sunglasses in the middle of the night. And thick, obviously fake accents.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

Your goal for the next 48 hours is as follows: fly to Paris, get a hotel, share the biggest, hottest, rose-scentedest bath possible with your new wife, then sleep for a day and a half straight while you regain your energy. After that you'll have to make some apologetic phone calls to the family, carefully skirting the impending issue of the inappropriate use of Webby's company card while you treat yourself to food and clothes, and after that? Who knows. Maybe you'll spend a month in the French countryside in a small cottage, selling spells to the locals while Webby raises goats for fancy cheese. Maybe you'll make a pilgrimage back to Italy and see what the old hag is up to, drive by her shit shack on the volcano cursing her existence. Maybe you'll crash on Selene's kline for a few weeks while Webby gets that training with Artemis she's been gunning for for over ten years now. You don't know.

You're not too worried. 

You'll make it up as you go.

 


End file.
